Ciudad de Los Gitanos

The black horses are.
The horseshoes are black.
On the capes shine
spots of ink and wax.
That's why they don't cry,
the skulls are made of lead.
With a patent leather soul
they come down the road.

Oh city of the gypsies!
Who saw you and doesn't remember you?
City of pain and musk,
with towers of cinnamon.
Oh city of the gypsies!
Who saw you and doesn't remember you?
Turn off your green lights
here comes the civil guard.

The fearless city,
multiplied its doors.
Forty civil guards
burst in through them.
The clocks stopped,
and the cognac from the bottles
disguised itself as November
to avoid arousing suspicion.
A flight of long screams
rose in the weather vanes.
The sabers cut through the breezes
trampled by the hooves.
Through the dark streets
the old gypsy women flee
with the sleeping horses
and the jugs of coins.
Up the steep streets
the sinister capes climb,
leaving behind fleeting
whirlwinds of scissors.

Oh city of the gypsies!
Who saw you and doesn't remember you?
Leave her far from the sea
without combs for her tresses.
Oh city of the gypsies!
Who saw you and doesn't remember you?
Let them seek you on my forehead.
Game of moon and sand.

Rose of the Camborios,
sits moaning at her door
with her two severed breasts
placed on a tray.
But the Civil Guard
advances sowing bonfires,
where young and naked
imagination burns.

Oh city of the gypsies!
Who saw you and doesn't remember you?
Let them seek you on my forehead.
Game of moon and sand.
Oh city of the gypsies!
The Civil Guard moves away
through a tunnel of silence
while the flames surround you
(Federico García Lorca)